So spoke my mothers
who came before me.
I am you.
And you are me.
And me . . . and me . . . and me . . . and me.
Echoes of each breath,
each whisper,
each dream,
come from the depths
of your soul—my soul.
You are me.
I am the curve of your fingers
clasped in your lap,
the come-hither hook of knuckle
and flick of wrist,
the smooth vale of your arm,
and bend of elbow.
I am your grey, brown, and silver
strands of flowing tresses,
the green flash of your eyes
in torment and rage.
The tears that you cry
have already been wept
from those gone before you.
Each act of love,
defiance,
understanding,
nurturing,
and wisdom,
your stubbornness and obsession.
Each goal and success.
Each moment of tenderness.
In midnight darkness
from fragile egg
to cell to embryo
to your sacred mother’s sacred womb
to first breath
to your first wail.
Generation to generation.
To generation.
We linger on.
We carry on.
I am you.
You are me.
And we are and will always be.
We are your mothers
who have gone before you.
Janine Phillips
Samhain, 2018
Janina Grey 